


Busy Being Yours

by sporadic_obsession



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, POV Sakusa Kiyoomi, Pro Volleyball Player Miya Atsumu, Pro Volleyball Player Sakusa Kiyoomi, Sakusa Kiyoomi is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporadic_obsession/pseuds/sporadic_obsession
Summary: It’s dark. Music pulses through the walls, over chairs and leather cushions until it thrums under skin. Lights flicker but they’re low, warm colors that barely allow for expressions to be recognized. Bodies move in tandem across the floor, grinding and swinging together, sweat gathering at the surface.Kiyoomi is but a mere spectator of it all.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 71





	Busy Being Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Do I have a song-fic waiting for me to finish it already? Yes. Did I write this one based on another song instead? Also yes. Go listen to Arctic Monkeys' song Do 'I Wanna Know?' if you'd like to be in the same headspace as I was while writing this. I think I fully blacked out while typing though. Oops.  
> As usual, any kudos or comment will be met with upmost joy from my end. (No, really – I sometimes cry because I'm so touched.)
> 
> If you wanna scream at me about this, you can find me on [twitter here](https://twitter.com/sprdc_obssn)!

It’s dark. Music pulses through the walls, over chairs and leather cushions until it thrums under skin. Lights flicker but they’re low, warm colors that barely allow for expressions to be recognized. Bodies move in tandem across the floor, grinding and swinging together, sweat gathering at the surface.

Kiyoomi is but a mere spectator of it all.

The bass seeps under his flesh nonetheless, vibrating against his bones whenever it strikes. The drink he’s holding has gone from cold to room temperature but he holds onto the glass either way, the liquid inside quaking as the deafening music continues to play. To his left, two of his teammates talk animatedly amongst themselves, having long given up on pulling him into the conversation. To his right, an empty seat that’s gone cold overtime tries to tease a reaction out of him. If he were less sober, perhaps he’d pat it, begging the person who sat there to return to his side. As it stands, he’s not gone enough to sink so low.

So, he watches.

Despite the different bodies dancing, his eyes are focused on a single person, dark gaze sharp as he follows his every move. Every bend of his wrist, every swirl of a tantalizing tongue over the cupid’s bow on his lip, every swing of hips; Kiyoomi is tracking it all, committing it to memory so he can recall it on the nights where his bed feels too cold, too empty. Gods, he shouldn’t be doing it - he should be looking away, forgetting about all of it, but he really doesn’t want to.

He never wants to forget the image of Atsumu laid bare against his bedsheets.

The first time it happened, it was a drunken mistake. Both he and Atsumu had a little too much alcohol swimming through their systems, thoughts hazy as their brain blocked out their common sense. They shouldn’t have fallen into the same bed; Kiyoomi shouldn’t have tasted Atsumu’s drink straight from his lips; Atsumu shouldn’t have learned how warm it felt to be inside Kiyoomi. It happened, however; much to Kiyoomi’s chagrin, it did, and he remembers every detail.

The second time, they weren’t drunk, but Kiyoomi argues that his level of exhaustion was enough to excuse his actions. It had been a gruelling game—especially since they lost—so when Atsumu followed him into his apartment, Kiyoomi didn’t think to stop him. He didn’t have enough willpower to remember they really shouldn’t be jeopardizing their careers in the heat of the moment. Atsumu’s lips on his neck felt comforting; his tongue tasted sweet when they kissed; his hand squeezed him just enough that the sensation remained—like a ghost that haunted him from the inside out—even after Atsumu was gone that night.

The third time… there’s no excuse, Kiyoomi will admit that much. They were both sober, neither too tired to know any better. They weren’t grieving a lost match or even celebrating a win. Atsumu knocked on Kiyoomi’s door before dinner, inviting himself into the apartment and helping Kiyoomi make enough food for two. Kiyoomi didn’t kick him out even after they were done eating, and chose a movie for them to watch on his couch that he knew Atsumu would like. Atsumu was the one to initiate contact, his arm looped around Kiyoomi’s shoulders like an anchor, and Kiyoomi was the one to close the distance for a kiss. Together, they lost clothes and inhibitions, each other’s name falling from their lips until they were both sated and sleep fell over them like a warm blanket, comforting them until morning came. Atsumu kissed him goodbye in the morning, and they never mentioned it again.

That third time happened a little over a week ago, and now Kiyoomi is watching Atsumu dance with someone else, feeling possessive in a way he never has before. He knows Atsumu is an adult, capable of making his own decisions and going home with whoever he so wishes; Kiyoomi has done much the same, especially during his college years. Still, there’s jealousy burning in a low setting inside his chest, lurking and waiting for that drop of gasoline to start its blazing journey across the room, consuming and destroying everything in its path. The feeling simmers, bubbling away as Kiyoomi’s eyes trace over Atsumu’s figure, lips parted as he presses them against the wet rim of his tall glass. He wants to trek across the dancefloor, grab Atsumu from the arms of a man who won’t know what to do with all of him, take him home and tear him apart with open-mouthed kisses and languid sweeps of his tongue. He wants to press Atsumu back against his chest and mark his neck so everyone will know he’s the only one allowed to touch; allowed to know what he sounds like in the throes of passion; allowed to call him _his_. He wants, and wants, and wants, and when wanting becomes too much—when Atsumu’s lidded gaze meets his across the room—he stops wanting, because there’s no use wanting something he’s already on his way to getting.

The song changes and Kiyoomi stands, surprising his two teammates but not caring in the slightest. He abandons his glass at the table as he slides off his seat, long legs carrying him towards Atsumu as if he’s but a mere moth and Atsumu is the light, the flame that beckons him forward, waiting to destroy him in the blaze of his warmth. He goes because he’s long lost the grip on what tethers him to reason when it comes to these mishaps he’d had with Atsumu; because he can’t escape Atsumu’s siren song as the ends of his lips curve into a smirk and the tip of his tongue peeks out between them; because he is but a mere puppet at the mercy of Atsumu’s expert hands, tugging and twisting the strings that control him. He goes, because Atsumu has cast an everlasting spell over him, and while he hasn’t lost his sobriety due to alcohol, he’s been drunk on Atsumu’s taste from the moment they first kissed.

“Took ya long enough, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t offer an answer, because he knows it isn’t welcome. Atsumu’s own tone hadn’t been looking for anything in return; just a statement before he takes over Kiyoomi’s whole being, like he usually does. Kiyoomi presses into Atsumu’s back without preamble, hands falling to the curve of the hips he’s been seeing in his dreams for the past few sleepless nights. Their bodies fit together like two halves of a whole being, and in the darkness of the dingy bar they’re at, it’s hard to see where one ends and another begins. Kiyoomi isn’t much of a dancer, but his hips swing in time with Atsumu’s easily, cold lips falling onto his neck as Atsumu’s hand crawls to the back of his hand, calloused fingers tangling in his curls as if they belong there. Their dance is intimate amidst the crowd, the body that had been almost draped over Atsumu just a minute ago having disappeared as he lost interest.

Kiyoomi feels warm from the inside out.

One of his hands sneaks under the edge of Atsumu’s shirt until his fingers spread over his stomach, and the soft laugh Atsumu breathes out in response is like music to his ears. The sound is low and gentle, yet it drowns out whatever beat they’re moving along to. His teeth graze at the sweet spot below Atsumu’s ear that he knows draws out a moan out of him every time, and he isn’t disappointed when he hears the low tone fall from Atsumu’s lips as he butchers his name completely. Kiyoomi doesn’t mind, doesn’t complain like he normally does; he feels high on the smell of Atsumu’s cologne as he presses his nose into the skin behind his ear, a small smile curling his lips as he whispers to him.

“Atsumu.”

There’s nothing he wants to say but his name; a reverence he offers to the one entity he believes in. He’s long lost interest in worshipping contradicting Gods and unseen spirits - but this, right here, he can touch. He can feel Atsumu’s breath as his face turns just enough for their lips to meet; he can see the way his eyes flutter shut the closer they get; he can touch the fluttering muscles of his abdomen as their tongues trace each other’s mouth. This, he can believe in. This—Atsumu—he’s willing to worship. And he does. He traces his free hand up and down his side in reverent touches, and his teeth tug at his lip as praise for their softness. When they abandon the bar—and their friends in it—and go back to his apartment, he takes his time showering Atsumu in bites that leave behind marks so he always remembers how much he’s adored; he touches the expanse of Atsumu’s skin with gentle touches that seal the diligent devotion he has for him; he licks and he sucks and he kisses like he’ll never have another chance to. He takes Atsumu to the precipice, and leaves him hanging on the edge until he’s ready to take the plunge with him.

When they resurface, Kiyoomi lays with his head on Atsumu’s chest, content when his fingers find their way back to his black curls. There’s no more music under their skin, no red strobes to color their expressions; there’s no sweaty bodies too close for comfort or curious eyes watching their every move. They’re alone, skin slicked with sweat and limbs weak from overexertion. There’s a lull in their lives, for the time being; the soundtrack to this moment just the passing noise of cars going a little too fast down the street. The lights are off but Kiyoomi can see Atsumu’s face lit up by the moonlight creeping in through the open window, and he takes another moment to commit him to memory - the satisfied smile on his lips is something he never wants to forget.

“Omi.” The accent is heavy in the aftermath, Kiyoomi knows this, but it still sends a chill up his spine. “M’not the only one feelin’ this, right?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply - he doesn’t have to. He traces a mark left behind on Atsumu’s neck—pressing down softly enough that a hiss passes through his lips—and lets the reddening spot be a clear reminder that Atsumu has been branded as his. He sees the way Atsumu’s eyelids flutter open and he looks into his eyes, and the flames that were previously contained inside Kiyoomi’s chest are now shining brightly in Atsumu’s gaze. There’s no need for words, when they know what comes next. Kiyoomi has fallen victim to impulse plenty of times in his lifetime, but, somehow, Atsumu has always been able to control him; this is just the way things go. When Kiyoomi is lost and overwhelmed, it is Atsumu who guides him and guarantees he has enough room to breathe. When Kiyoomi craves something, Atsumu is always happy to be the one to provide it.

They fall together like two halves of a whole, and Kiyoomi is tired of fighting what’s been inevitable from the start. The excuses for their behavior feel flimsy, passable at best; anyone who has met the two of them when they’re comfortable not to put on an act have been expecting this. Kiyoomi is tired of trying to hold back, tired of pretending; he wants Atsumu by his side not just when he’s drunk, tired, or hurting. Kiyoomi wants to wake up to Atsumu more often; wants their kisses to become so frequent the novelty of tasting Atsumu’s lips wears off; wants to be able to hold his hand just because; wants to not have to think of excuses, anymore.

“Omi, can I stay here tonight?”

Atsumu is drifting off, his fingertips stalling their massage on Kiyoomi’s head as he begins to fall victim to his tiredness. Kiyoomi doesn’t mind - he’s feeling the trudges of sleep start to crawl over his body too.

“Tonight, tomorrow, whenever you want,” he whispers in return, settling against Atsumu’s side with a happy sigh.

With his ear over Atsumu’s chest, he lets the rhythm of his heart sing him a gentle lullaby until everything fades.


End file.
